


i'd take care of you (if you'd ask me to)

by writerforlife



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, so be the change you want to see in the world, there weren't enough fics for this book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 10:16:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13785357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerforlife/pseuds/writerforlife
Summary: Even after their lives return to (a new) normal, Monty and Percy are still learning how to take care of each other.





	i'd take care of you (if you'd ask me to)

**Author's Note:**

> I loved this book so much! I hope I did the characters and the amazing tone Mackenzi Lee set justice
> 
> Title is from Beach House's "Take Care"

Percy woke in the middle of the night to nausea and pain. Monty laid next to him, snoring and managing to steal the covers  _ and  _ curl into Percy’s for more warmth. He certainly had enough of that. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead and dripped onto the pillow. His heart thumped against his chest in dire warning.

_ Not a fit not a fit not a fit not a fit.  _

He inhaled sharply and twisted so that he laid on his side, back curled away from Monty. There’d been two since they settled down after the tour. Two. One when Monty was away buying food, the other when he was at his side. After he’d regained his senses, Percy had only been able to sprawl on the bed and stare at Monty weakly; Monty hadn’t been able to stay  _ still.  _ He’d paced outside, first, then inside, grabbing Percy’s wrist every few moments and fingers searching for his pulse. It was ridiculous, but Percy allowed it. 

Percy exhaled. It wouldn’t be a fit. Just enough discomfort to be a hassle. Still, the fearful anticipation wouldn’t dissipate, and sleep was oceans away. His nausea prickled up; he pressed his lips together and tugged on Monty’s hand a few times. “Monty.”

Monty groaned and stretched out, his arms moving in a wide circle that threatened to collide with Percy’s nose. He never woke quickly. Most mornings, it felt luxurious to watch him wake up in pieces: he always stretched, the muscles he earned on the botched tour moving with him; he muttered nonsense under his breath; he opened his bleary eyes. His hair always tumbled over his face, but it never hid a half-smile, still roguishly handsome and enhanced by the scarred skin. Presently, when he opened his eyes, Percy wished he had something sweet to say, but his stomach turned. 

“Monty,” he muttered. “I’m going to throw up.”

Even with his eyes barely open, Monty realized that meant intensive clean-up, washing the sheets, and everything that came with laundry. His footsteps pounded against the floor as he sprinted to the kitchen. Percy pushed himself into a sitting position and fisted his hands in the sheets in a way that was entirely un-seductive. 

“Here we go,” Monty said. He shoved the bowl in front of Percy unceremoniously, then edged away. As Percy emptied his stomach, though, gentle hands pulled his hair away from his face. In their relationship, Percy had expected him to be brash, as he usually was, and was entirely unprepared for hesitant, exploratory touches and shy (but purposeful) glances. Monty was downright  _ tender  _ with him, and the thoughts made Percy want to do something about it—which was extremely inconvenient and unromantic when he’d just vomited. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, wiping his lips. 

“Don’t be.” Nose wrinkled, Monty plucked the bowl away and held it a good distance away from it like it was an animal preparing to strike. “You truly know how to romance a man.”

“I’m a man of many charms.” He groaned and leaned back against the pillows. 

Monty frowned and pressed his hand to Percy’s forehead. “You’re feverish. Right. Don’t move.” He ambled to the kitchen, moving at his typical leisurely pace now that the threat had passed. Percy pulled the blankets over his bare chest and tried to forget about the bad taste in his mouth.  _ I hate this.  _ One brief moment of self-pity. It was all he allowed himself. An interlude. He accepted his life, he loathed it, he accepted it again. It was the hand he’d been dealt, and it did not define him. 

Monty returned with a glass of water and a fresh bowl with a damp cloth. He hesitated in the doorway, silver moonlight pouring over his bare chest and concerned expression. Percy wanted to say something, but the moment passed. Monty sat cross-legged on the bed next to him and helped Percy into a sitting position so he could drink. Water was typically quicker and safer—the kettle still gave Monty trouble—after an incident like this. As he drank, Percy could feel Monty watching him with a loaded gaze. 

“Is this because of anything more serious?” Monty whispered. “Do I need to…” 

“I think it’ll pass.” Percy chuckled, a little breathlessly. “You must think me helpless. I’ll be fine. Truly. I’ve had much worse.”

Monty, for once, had no response, as he wrung the cloth out over the bowl, water dripping onto their blankets, then placed it on Percy’s sweaty forehead. Then, he gently worked his fingers through Percy’s hair, over and over like the refrain of a song. “How much worse?” 

“Monty, you can’t—”

“I hate it.” Monty’s shoulders were curled in, his expression petulant, but his lip was jutted out enough for Percy to know that his distress was real. When he told Percy he wasn’t sure if he wanted to stay alive, his lips had looked like that. Even then, he wanted to kiss away the bad feelings. When they were fifteen, he couldn’t do it for fear of rejection; now, he couldn’t do it because he felt as if he’d collapse if he sat up. “I hate that there was an entire part of your life that I simply missed. I was so caught up in my own problems that…” 

Percy found Monty’s hand and squeezed his fingers. “I did everything I could to keep it from you. You can’t be blamed for not knowing.”

“But that’s the problem!” Monty stood up and begin to pace the length of their bedroom, agitating the patches of moonlight that streamed through the dusty window. “I wish I had known so I could’ve… done something. I could’ve done something, Perce. I could’ve tried. You were in pain, and I didn’t know. I gave you so much of my pain and didn’t know about yours. You had to carry everything alone. I’m afraid….” He plopped onto the bed gracelessly, then dropped his head into his hands and sighed. 

“Monty.” Percy tried to prop himself up onto one elbow, but the effort sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. Monty made an indignant sound and eased him back onto the pillows. 

“And even now. You’re hurting, but I’m making it about myself. Why do you trust me to do this?” Percy could tell Monty wanted it to be taken lightly, but his voice trembled. 

“ _ Monty. _ Lay down.” 

With a slight frown, Monty took the cloth from Percy’s forehead, placed it in the bowl, then slid back into bed. He wrapped his arms around Percy and buried his nose in his hair. 

Percy settled his head into the crook of Monty’s neck. “Remember how I would wake in the middle of the night the first few weeks we were here? And I said I didn’t feel well?” He closed his eyes and reached for Monty’s hand. “I felt fine. Nightmares.”

“Nightmares? About—”

“I saw your father hitting you. I saw that  _ awful  _ man slap you. You didn’t see it, but your head jerked back like he’d broken your neck. I saw Helena beating you. I saw you sobbing. Heard it, too. And I dreamt of…” He remembered Monty’s blood pouring from the mangled skin near his ear, streaming down his neck and pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. Monty had regained consciousness, briefly, and asked if Percy was hurt.  _ If I was hurt.  _ As if a bullet hadn’t nearly ended his life. After he faded away again, his heartbeat had been thready, almost gone. Felicity pulled him back, sliced his ear off cleanly and bandaged his head, but all Percy had been able to do was watch and think about how  _ small  _ Monty looked. In his dreams, he never woke up. “I dreamt of death.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” 

“How could I? You almost died again and again for me. You gave up an entire life, defied your father, all for me, and—” Breath left his body and was replaced by a new wave of nausea; he winced and curled in on himself. 

“Breathe, darling.” Monty shifted so that they were both laying on their sides, faces inches apart. Even when they weren’t together, they often laid like this, sometimes in one of their bedrooms, sometimes in an open field. Percy had always searched Monty’s eyes for signs of how he felt, for a cue to close the distance between them. Now, Monty was raw and open, his eyes bright. “Please breathe.”

Percy took a deep, steadying breath. “I know you love me. And when you love someone, you don’t want him to be in pain. That’s how I know you’ll take care of me. I’ll let you.” He closed his eyes and pulled the blankets to his chin. “Nobody’s tried before.”

“You never answered. How much worse?” Under the blankets, Monty’s hand wrapped around Percy’s bare torso to pull their bodies closer together. 

“My aunt and uncle thought I was insane. I told you that they wouldn’t stay in the room if I had a fit. You’ve seen me during one. I know it’s frightening. I just made sure I couldn’t hit my head on anything. Zounds, Monty, I wanted to tell you.” A jumble of words explaining everything had been on his lips so many times, but he could never thread them together into coherent sentences. 

“I know now.” Monty kissed his forehead, then the tip of his nose, then his lips, soft and deep. Percy leaned into the kiss, bringing his hand to the puckered skin around Monty’s jaw and missing ear. The wound had scarred, but it was healed.  _ Healed.  _

“Thank you,” Percy murmured. 

“It was no trouble.” Monty settled onto the pillows next to him. 

“Do you feel better?”

“I will.” Sleep began to call for him again, and he closed his eyes. 

“Good.” Monty pressed his lips to Percy’s forehead once more. Percy thought he could survive on kisses alone, kisses and the gentle upward slope of Monty’s lips. “Sweet dreams, darling.”


End file.
